


Good Enough to be Going on With

by beetle



Category: Star Trek
Genre: AU, F/M, Genderswap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written per Devo's prompts: "McCoy and Pavel were together but Pavel was a girl and maybe...pregnant?...could I have pregnant Pavelina?" To which I reply," Yes. You. Can!"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Notes: GENDERSWAP. Schmangst. Het (I feel so unclean).

  
“Do you think my hair is too curly?”  
  
  
It's not what Lina meant to say, never mind how she meant to say it. But thinking isn't the easiest job in the world when Leonard's inside her--even if she wasn't partially distracted by other, related matters.  
  
  
At first there's no answer. Leonard's thrusts don't even slow, though he does change his angle a little, and . . . Lina sees stars that are far more entrancing than anything outside the window a few feet away. Her fingers clench and bunch in Leonard's sheets, and she spreads her legs wider, pushing back to meet each thrust.  
  
  
It's  _indescribable_. 'Perfect' simply isn't adjective enough. Then:  
  
  
“What?”  
  
  
“Vha--oh. Em. My hair?” Lina looks over her shoulder at Leonard, damp, chin-length curls partially obscuring her view of him. His handsome face is flushed and intent with concentration, his eyes closed, his hands hot and heavy on her hips even through the sturdy fabric of her uniform. He's still completely dressed, as is she, but for her panties and boots. “Is too curly, you think?”  
  
  
Again, not what she meant to ask.  
  
  
Dark, only mildly annoyed eyes open, and Leonard squints at her, but still doesn't slow the just-exactly-right rhythm of his hips. “You're askin' me this  _now_?”   
  
  
“Vell. Vhen you put it like  _that_  it sounds odd.” Lina blushes, and smiles sheepishly. “But, em. You have an unobstructed view of my hair. It seemed like the optimal time to ask your opinion.”  
  
  
Leonard's eyebrows disappear under his own mussed hair and he runs a hand down her back (she's always been conscious of and unhappy about her knobby spine, but he's never minded). “Sweetheart, if you c'n still think, let alone use five dollar-words like 'unobstructed' and 'optimal', I must not be doin' this right,” he says testily, but the annoyance has faded from his eyes, to be replaced by fondness that can still, after a year, take Lina completely by surprise.  
  
  
Much like the man, himself, who leans down and braces his arms to either side of her own. Kisses her temple so tenderly, tears spring to her eyes, and she's tempted, so tempted, to say nothing at all. To keep her peace, and simply do the logical thing.  
  
  
Leonard doesn't ever have to know--will probably be better off never knowing.  
  
  
“Lina, baby,” he murmurs in her ear, wrapping an arm around her middle, and pulling her tight against him. She moans appreciatively as he slides back into her, extra-slowly, so she feels every hard inch of him. She's never wanted or needed anything as much as she wants and needs Leonard McCoy. “You're beautiful. You, and your crazy, cave-woman hair. “  
  
  
“I . . . I am glad you feel that vay.”  
  
  
“Mmhmm. . . .” he's nibbling her ear, nosing his way past her curls, nuzzling her neck. Telling her how  _damned_  good she smells.   
  
  
“You know, the curly hair is passed down from the mother, to the child, in my fam--oh! Leonard!” If it's hard to think when Leonard's in her, it's doubly hard to think when he's fingering her as well, talented surgeon's fingers alternating back and forth between tortuously feather-light, and rough and dirty. It robs her of both thought and speech, till she's making high-pitched gasps as her body strains and struggles and prepares to come.  
  
  
Behind her, Leonard moans, and thrusts harder, faster, his body plastered to and rocking with her own. “That's . . . oh, yeah, just like that, sweetheart, just . . . God, you feel so fuckin'  _amazin'_. . . .” he breathes, his tone absent and tense in a way that she recognizes as  _at the edge and about to go over_  from months of experience, and . . . and she knows with a burst of sobering, unwelcome clarity that if not now, then never. She's is not, by nature, spontaneous or bold.  
  
  
So it  _must_  be now.  
  
  
“My hair is curly, so . . . the--the baby vill . . . have curly hair, too.”  
  
  
This time, Leonard positively  _freezes_. Instantly.  
  
  
Lina can actually feel the blood drain out of her face so fast, she's certain she's about to faint, and so to stave off unconsciousness, she babbles. “If a curly-haired baby is not something you vant . . . vith me, I . . . understand. Nurse Chapel vas wery helpful in making me avare of my options, but before I did anything I couldn't take back, I thought I should discuss the matter vith you, since this is your baby, too, even if she has my seelly hair and even if you don't vant me anymore and--”  
  
  
“Stop,” Leonard says softly. Then he pulls out, as if he fears somehow compounding this pregnancy with a second one. Or as if he could erase what's already happened. He even goes so far as to leave the bed altogether, and Lina immediately misses the fullness, and nearness of him. Tries to prepare herself for a lifetime of this particular absence. “Jesus . . . how far gone are you?”  
  
  
“Almost three months.”  
  
  
He swears, and she closes her eyes. Wonders if she looks as small and disappointed as she feels. But finally she turns to face Leonard, tucking her legs under her and smoothing her uniform skirt over her thighs, the muscles of which still twitch and tremor in anticipation of an orgasm that may never come.  
  
  
Leonard's already zipped up his trousers and pulled his shirt down. He doesn't look like the man who was moments ago making love to her, mussy hair aside. Nor does he look like a man inclined to have sex ever again. He looks like someone who's just found a crocodile in his swimming pool: puzzled and horrified. Ready to run for his life at the first sign of danger.  
  
  
It's several silent minutes before he can meet her eyes steadily, and even then, he stares at her as if he's never really seen her before.  
  
  
 _Now_ , she thinks,  _the qvestions vill come. About what birth control I was using, and why Dr. M'Benga prescribed something that's clearly substandard at worst, and not fool-proof, at best. About why I didn't notice my symptoms sooner, and what my plans are for . . . correcting this silly accident._  
  
  
She looks away. Not because she can't hold his gaze, and not because it hurts--which it does, more than anything she's ever felt--but because she doesn't want him to see the tears in her eyes . . . tears she's barely been able to control since Nurse Chapel confirmed her worst fears this morning.  
  
  
Of all the many things she wants, and now suspects she'll never get, the thing she wants most is for Leonard not to feel trapped with her. Tied to her by a child he doesn't want and, even if he wanted, probably wouldn't have planned to have with a skinny, chatty,  _needy_  nineteen year old. . . .  
  
  
“I do not vish you to feel responsible for me, or the child,” she whispers, and Leonard laughs unhappily, pacing to the bathroom and back. He's shaking his head as if he doesn't quite know what to say, whether to cry or scream, and she lowers her eyes again. Studies the yellow-gold weave of her skirt. The hem is fraying and will need mending before too long. Though she might not. The only reason she'd hemmed it even higher than it already was, was because Leonard likes her legs, even though--to Lina's way of thinking--her knees and ankles are just as knobby as her spine and elbows.  
  
  
“Christ, how could I  _not_  feel responsible, Lina--I goddamn knocked ya up!” He pauses his pacing at the bed, his regard as tangible as weights on her back and shoulders. “Havin' gotten my teenage girlfriend up the spout is  _not_  a responsibility-free state of being!”  
  
  
“ _You_  did not  _knock me up the spout_ \-- _ve_  have conceived a child.” Now Lina looks up, meeting Leonard's scowl with the most placid mask she can muster, though she suspects she's still sheet-white, if the mild light-headedness is anything to go by. “And perhaps 'responsible' vas a poor choice of vords. I--am capable of taking responsibility for the baby on my own. I simply thought that since ve created this child  _together_ , it vas only right that ve decide vhat to do about her together, as vell. But I did not vant to  _obligate_  you, merely include you.”  
  
  
“ _Obligate_?” Leonard runs his hand through his hair, tugging on it and closing his eyes. “Lina, sweetheart, you're too young to be anyone's  _mother_ , and I'm too damn stubborn and mean to be any kind of father!”  
  
  
She holds her head high and crosses her arms. “Perhaps ve are. But that does not change the fact that I am pregnant. And vill be  _somevone_ 's mother soon enough.”  
  
  
“Well, I suppose I'm glad at least one of us can be so calm and glib about what, besides being a goddamned  _miracle_ , is also an unwanted pregnancy!”  
  
  
Lina winces, then scoots to the edge of the bed and stands up. Straightens and adjusts her uniform, and doesn't even bother to look for her underwear. Leonard had, in his haste, all but ripped it off her the moment the door to the CMO's quarters whooshed shut.  
  
  
But provided she doesn't start sprinting or skipping on the way to her own quarters, the skirt of her uniform isn't quite short enough to give her crew-mates a free show. So she jams her sockless feet into the boots she'd kicked off in  _her_  haste--had it been mere minutes ago that they'd been frantic simply to be with each other, they way they'd been a thousand times before? A few minutes ago that the only disaster facing them both was Leonard not getting inside her fast enough?  
  
  
“Surely you realize that there're about eleventy billion reasons to not let this pregnancy go to term?” Leonard demands, and Lina nods, keeps her face free of all expression. She feels as if she so much as frowns . . . she'll shatter. And that if she shatters . . . Leonard might say or do anything just to put her back together. Even something he doesn't necessarily mean or want.  
  
  
Nothing would be worse than that. Not even being childless, and alone. In fact, she's starting to dearly wish she'd said nothing at all. That she'd made the sensible choice alone, and then never told him anything. Never lost him the way she's losing him now . . . losing the  _Ideal Leonard_ , who might have been overjoyed to raise a curly-haired baby with her, even if only in closely-held, regretful what-if fantasies . . . .  
  
  
Somehow, she manages to smile without crying, but Leonard doesn't look reassured. He looks disheveled and harried and . . . small. “Yes. I understand,” she says evenly. And she does. There are, she knows--just as she's  _always_ , instinctively known, deep down-- _no_  Ideals in a practical universe. Ideals have no place outside the realm of pure mathematics. The entire universe and everything in it is simply a finite, but unimaginably massive and complex series of flawed, unsolved equations.  
  
  
And the only equation more flawed than the man in front of her, is herself, she supposes. Granted, she'd always thought that, in time, she and Leonard might make sense of each other, if not of anyone or anything else.  
  
  
Someday, she'd hoped, they might solve each other for  _x_.  
  
  
Well.  
  
  
Life and mathematics have little in common, and even if they did . . . solving for  _x_  wouldn't really _solve_  anything at all, would it?  
  
  
“I'm sorry, Leonard,” she tells him, because she is. Sorry about more than she can ever say, though she thinks maybe it's better this way. Easier. All that's left to do is leave. To get to her quarters, make an appointment with Dr. M'Benga for tomorrow, and . . . move on with her life. Pretend the baby, and maybe Leonard, had never happened to her. “I should go.”  
  
  
“So that's it?” He looks twice as incredulous as he sounds, hands on his hips as if he's dressing down a subordinate. Lina would normally call him on such an unacceptable tone, but  _that_ discussion would probably take more energy than the current one. “You just spring a surprise like that, then run away when you don't get exactly the reaction you expect, exactly when you expect it? Damn  _women_ \--don't even give a man a chance to digest information before you storm off in a cloud of bruised feelings!”  
  
  
She spreads her hands helplessly, too adrift to be angry. “Vhat do you vant me to say? You are right. I  _don't_  know  _vhat_  I expected of you, Leonard,” she says plainly, thinking:  _I only know that I hoped for something better than I'm getting, however fair or unfair such hopes are to you._  “I think it's best that I go.”  
  
  
“No, Lina, you are  _not_  leaving before we talk about this! I never said I  _wanted_  you to go, and--god _damn_ it!  _Computer, authorization code McCoy-delta-delta-five-one-nine. Lock-down CMO's quarters, voice override only!_ ”   
  
  
The computer beeps its compliance, just as Lina reaches the door. She smacks it hard, leaving her stinging hand where it lands, and leaning her head next to it. For a long time, neither of them say anything, and when he approaches her, she doesn't turn around. Not even when Leonard's hands settle on her hips, or his chin on the crown of her head.  
  
  
“Talk to me, baby,” he says lowly. It's half plea and half demand, and if he sounds frustrated and angry, he sounds doubly concerned. In a strange way, the concern is worse than when he was snarling at her. It feels like pity, and pity is something she's never been able to stomach. The Chekovs are a proud family with ample reason to be so--not least of all her.  
  
  
But pride . . .  _everything_  goes right out the window when she's with Leonard. It has since day one.  
  
  
Leonard sighs, his breath stirring her hair. “One of these days I'll get tired of the taste of shoe leather, and start thinkin' before I speak,” he says gruffly. One of his hands--big, gentle, far kinder than even his patients might expect--slides around to her stomach, and when he pulls her back against him, she doesn't try to prevent him. Even knowing what must happen, there's no comfort greater than Leonard McCoy's arms to be found in the great, wide universe. And as Starfleet's star navigator, she should know. “Try and remember that I ain't a mind reader, darlin'. That if you don't tell me what's goin' on in that head of yours, I'm not about to guess, and get it wrong, and hurt you more than I already do.”  
  
  
Lina blinks back more tears, but not before a few escape. It's not her head that's the problem. Her head agrees tacitly with Leonard that the last thing either of them needs is a child to take care of, and look after. But her heart . . . is breaking just imagining the rest of her life without this person who  _is barely_  a person, and whom she hasn't even met. “You vant to know vhat I'm thinking? I'm thinking you are right, okay? I'm  _not_  ready to be a mother. Not ready to do this alone, on a starship, so far avay from my family. You are right. It vould be better for us both if . . . I simply didn't carry the child to term.” Yes, she knows the Standard word for  _abortion_ , but can't make herself say it aloud.  
  
  
“Jesus . . . is . . . is it healthy, so far?”  
  
  
“According to Dr. M'Benga, she's healthy, and deweloping normally. So far.”  
  
  
"Son of a gun." Leonard snorts. “Hardly any surprise there, considering how hard-headed and contrary the both of us are. She'd  _have_  to be hardy and resilient just fight against the odds of her even existing . . . so I take it with all this  _she_  business, it's definitely a girl?”  
  
  
Lina nods, and Leonard snorts again, rubbing his hand gently, soothingly over her very-slightly-rounder-and-sorer-than-it-was-even-two-weeks-ago stomach. “Figures. Well, as long as she gets her mother's looks and brains, and her father's commons sense, she oughtta do alright for herself.”  
  
  
Certain she'd heard wrong, Lina turns in his arms. He's smiling a little--not exactly happily, but he doesn't look as harried and upset as he did a few minutes ago. He no longer looks like he's about to . . . head for the hills. She shakes her head, confused. “Vhat are you saying?”  
  
  
“I'm sayin' that . . . God help me, I don't know that I'm ready for, or that I even want another child--I'm barely a father to Joanna. But I know that I love you, that I wanna be with you for as long as you'll have me, and that I want you to be  _happy_. So . . . while I may not feel ready to be a father again, I'm  _not_  ready for you to terminate this pregnancy when it's obvious that you already love this baby-- _our baby_ \--”  
  
  
“No,” Lina says, shaking her head again. “No, Leonard--I don't vant to obligate you. You should not have to be a father if you don't vant to be--to be vith a woman you don't want, who's carrying a  _child_  you don't vant--”  
  
  
“Polina.” Leonard cups her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. Hugs her tight, tight, tight, till she relaxes against him, hiding her face against his chest as tears leak out. There seems to be an endless supply, all of a sudden. “You're the only thing in my personal life I  _am_  sure about. So before you go off and do somethin' we might both regret, gimme a little time, alright? Time to process and accept. I don't imagine  _you_  were walkin' on air when you first found out, either.”  
  
  
“I . . . found out this morning, and ever since I have been wacillating betveen abject terror, and mere panic,” she admits to Leonard's heart-beat, inhaling his scent (a comforting mix of aftershave and Sickbay-grade sanitizer). Only some of her initial terror and panic was due to worry over Leonard's possible reaction. Nineteen  _is_ , after all, unusually young to be a parent in most Federation cultures.   
  
  
But wound up with that fear, and in some way calming it, had been a strange optimism. A  _desire_ to see this child she and Leonard have created. To hold her, to hear her laugh, to guide her, and watch her grow and learn--to see them both in her features and her personality, even as she matures into her own woman.  
  
  
Lina wanted and still wants that so much, she can barely contain the strange new mix of worryjoypainelationanticipationlovefear that's taking up all the room in her chest, and making hard even to breath. She  _wants_  this child, but. . . .  
  
  
“I vill not do this vithout you, Leonard,” she prmoises, looking into his eyes, laying every hope she has on the table, and her future on the line. “I vant to meet our daughter more than _anything_. For us  _both_  to love her, and never regret having her. To not stop being her parents even if we decide to not be together anymore. If that is something you think you might not be able to do, even vith all your trying . . . if you vish me to, I  _vill_  end this pregnancy.”  
  
  
Leonard bites his lip, and his eyes drift to some point above her forehead. He seizes one springy light brown curl between his thumb and forefinger and tugs on it gently, somberly. “Well, now. Bein' a father--and a husband: I won't act like the two're mutually exclusive--ain't a responsibility to be taken on lightly, and I won't. Which is why, before I put both oars in the water again, we need to lay down a few ground-rules first. And this rule's . . . pretty much a yea-nay deal-breaker, to my way of thinkin'.” He scowls down at her for a few awful moments, before smiling crookedly, wryly. “I'll  _gladly_  pull diaper duty all day, every day . . . if that means I don't ever,  _ever_  have to attempt to comb this wild, cave-woman mop she's bound to inherit from her mother.”  
  
  
For nearly a minute, Lina can only gape. Only stare, and stare, uncomprehending, until Leonard starts to look concerned again, and caresses her cheek tenderly. “Lina, honey, I was just joshin' you, I-- _ow_!”  
  
  
Then she kicks him in his other leg, too, just for good measure. Laughs and laughs till she's giggling, and even those giggles are more like relieved, half-hysterical sobs. “You are a jerk! The beegest jerk in the galaxy, and I love you!” she exclaims, all hoarse, cracking voice and tear-blurred vision. She kisses his chin, his nose, and every part of him she can reach, bouncing up onto her toes to do so. After trying unsuccessfully to capture her mouth several times, he finally does, and makes a surprised sound when the kiss he receives is frantic and desperate, unlike her usual precise, almost dainty kisses. And despite his initial attempts to calm it.  
  
  
Soon, he's kissing her back just as frantically, though his arms around her are tentative, too restraining. Too  _careful_. But she hooks her leg around his own and can feel that he's either still hard or hard again. It's a matter of moments till his embrace tightens to just the way she likes it, then disappears as he alternately fumbles open his trousers and pushes up her skirt.  
  
  
Even so, the angle's all wrong because of the height difference. Usually, that wouldn't stop her from problem-solving by way of climbing him like a tree and wrapping her legs around his hips once he was inside her, his fingers biting into her thighs hard enough to leave bruises . . . but Leonard seems hesitant, and that's enough to give her pause as well.  
  
  
“You sure you wanna--I mean, we don't have to stop having penetrative sex till the third trimester,” he says in a stoic rush, his mouth pursed. But the fingers teasing her to completely scatter-brained distraction are anything but hesitant. “But if you don't wanna do . . .  _this_ \--” some of that stoic look leaves his face as she moans, and he crooks the two fingers that he slipped inside of her. “If you want, we could just cuddle, and . . . talk--”  
  
  
“Nyet, nyet-- _no_ ,” she says in a tone that brooks no argument. And even if it did, the quivering and shaking of her body certainly won't stand for any back-talk. “Less talk, more penetrative sex. Now, please.”  
  
  
“You are officially my favorite person in the entire universe. Like . . .  _ever_ ,” Leonard says, perfectly seriously, and Lina rolls her eyes. But kisses him before he can take it back or qualify it.  
  
  
No, he's not an  _Ideal Leonard_ , and never will be, but though there are much worse things he _could_  be, there are few better. As it stands, he's already the man she'll love till the day she dies. The man who won't, despite his reservations, take the easy way out.  
  
  
He will instead, as his fellow countrymen are fond of saying, take a lemon of a situation, and make it into lemonade.  
  
  
 _And that_ , she's surprised to realize as Leonard swings her up into his arms and carries her back to his bed, muttering all the while about the unhealthy histrionics of certain pregnant women who shall remain nameless,  _is good enough to be going on with_.  
  



	2. Hormones, and the Pregnant Ensign

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lina is tired, Leonard is tongue-tied, and sex is had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes/Warnings: GENDERSWAP. Girl!Chekov, six months pregnant. The 'verse starts in "Good Enough To Be Going On With," but can be read as a standalone.

Small, cool fingers card through Leonard's hair.  
  
  
“You think is normal that I am so beeg so soon? And that baby keecks so much?”  
  
  
“Hmm.” Leonard doesn't answer immediately. His head is on Lina's breast, his hand on her stomach, and he knows that, ornery as his child probably already is, she's bound to kick again, even if it’s in her own sweet little time. "You're carrying a McCoy, so, yes."  
  
  
In the dim lighting of their quarters—though he prefers the lights at seventy-three percent, Lina prefers them at thirty-seven percent, and unless he's reading, Leonard's not inclined to start an argument over it—every bit of furniture has taken on softer, rounded edges. Between their bed and Lina's desk is a fancy, hi-tech, Vulcan-style crib; it's a wedding gift from Spock, of all people, and Lina had burst into tears and launched herself at the pointy-eared bastard, hugging him until his face turned an interesting shade of green.  
  
  
“Ai!” Lina gasps and Leonard grins. Can't help it. The kid's really getting up a game of soccer under his hand.  
  
  
“Hey there, li'l darlin',” he whispers, attempting to soothe the visibly turbulent area with his hand. “We know you're in there, sweetheart, but ya gotta stop kickin' so hard. Your mama ain't a soccer ball.”  
  
  
“No, she is not. Ai,” Lina adds tiredly, still running her fingers through Leonard's hair.  
  
  
True to her contrary, McCoy genetics, the baby doesn't listen at all—keeps putting her foot to Lina's stomach with gusto.  
  
  
Leonard sits up a little and smiles apologetically at Lina. In her nest of pillows, she looks . . . beautiful, tired, small, and far too young to be six months pregnant. “Sorry, baby. I tried.”  
  
  
“I know. Thank you,  _s'olnyshko_.” Lina smiles—it's lovely, but  _exhausted_. The pregnancy hasn't been easy on her. It spends her energy faster than she can make more. But she insists that she can still perform all her duties and does so, though she's drained at the end of every shift. This past shift was no different, only instead of pretending to a vigor she no longer has, Lina had simply collapsed onto their bed and started crying.  
  
  
“Is  _your_  fault!” she'd accused when Leonard looked up from his monitor and PADD. She'd been as unhappy as he'd ever seen her, her hair a curly, frizzy halo around her head, her eyes widened in misery. “ _Your_  baby is doing this to me!”  
  
  
And then she'd started ranting in Russian—Leonard had understood maybe two words out of every twenty, and they weren't  _nice_  words, not at all—till her voice faltered and hitched, and her shoulders slumped, and she just . . .  _stopped_ , looking more than a little startled and embarrassed.  
  
  
Then she'd started crying again. Not big, loud sobs, just quiet tears and a crumpled face, and Leonard, who'd been frozen in his chair by the increasingly familiar display of hysterics, had been quick to go to her, sweep her up into his arms for some intensive hugging, then he'd laid her down carefully when she’d stopped shaking.  
  
  
“I am sorry. Is hormones,” she'd said in miserable, water-logged tones while Leonard untied her boots and pulled them off. Then laughed when he chucked them over his shoulder. When he'd crawled into bed with her and pulled her close, she sighed. “Stoopid, stoopid hormones! And the baby wouldn't stop keecking me all sheeft, and . . . ai, I am  _so_  tired, Leonard.”  
  
  
“Hush,” Leonard'd said quietly, kissing her forehead, and putting his hand on her stomach. Just in time to catch the tail-end of a flurry of kicks that hadn't stopped for almost ten minutes.  
  
  
Now, noting the faint dark circles around her eyes, and that her face seems a little  _too_  wan and gaunt, Leonard is tempted to pull rank and order her to start maternity leave. Both Jim's been asking him why he hasn't done it (“I feel like a mean, old monster, making a tiny, pregnant ensign—my  _best friend_ 's tiny, pregnant ensign—do stuff for eight hours when she looks like she's ready to go into labor,” he'd grumbled) and M'Benga has been hinting around that if Leonard doesn't talk Lina into starting maternity leave soon, as her doctor, he  _will_  order a fairly restrictive bed-rest.  
  
  
So, he's tempted . . . but doesn't. Can't. He's never been able to deny Lina anything, and if work is what she wants— _needs_ , then . . . work she will, till M'Benga decides it's detrimental to her physical well-being. For now, her mental well-being seems to be in more jeopardy. For now. . . .  
  
  
. . . he kisses her forehead, the tip of her nose, her lips. She sighs and kisses him back, her cool hands coming up to cup his face. She tastes like fruit juice (the latest pregnancy craving) and faintly of almonds (the first and longest-lasting pregnancy craving, after slightly burnt toast).  
  
  
It's not long before the kiss stops being sweet and starts being dirty. Before Lina's dragging the hand that'd been on her stomach down lower.  
  
  
“See? Not  _all_  the hormones are bad,” Leonard says, pushing up the skirt of her (very) altered uniform. His hand slides up the quivering muscles of her thigh to pluck at the hem of her panties and stroke her through them.  
  
  
“No, not all,” she agrees, smiling wryly. As the pregnancy progresses, Lina's sex drive has been increasing. A  _lot_. Before the third trimester, Leonard would wake up in the middle of the night sometimes (after, they'd had sex in the evening) to Lina astride him, bouncing on and off his cock like a woman possessed.  
  
  
At first he'd tried to get himself awake and aware enough to . . . help out, but he soon discovered all she seemed to require of him was that he stay hard for as long as he could.  
  
  
When he came, she'd come right after, and they'd kiss, until they fell asleep.  
  
  
It'd been . . .  _damned nice_.  
  
  
Lately, sex has to be rather more premeditated than that. The pre-show has become the main event, foreplay taking the place of actual sex. It's been something of a shock to both their systems, and some days, Leonard's certain Lina's taking the change worse than he is. As much as she likes getting fingered, and eaten out—as much as she praises Leonard for his skill at both—she simply loves it more when Leonard fucks her. The harder and faster, the better.  
  
  
But the third trimester started ten days ago. Which means it's at least another four months (at _least_ ) till they can do  _that_  again. Foreplay may not quite be enough for either of them, but it's a far cry from no sex at all.  
  
  
“ _Leonard_ ,” she moans softly, and spreads her legs. Her breathing turns quick and light and her eyes flutter shut. She's so beautiful, Leonard has to kiss her again, pushing aside thin cotton to find that yes, she's wet. Wet enough that when she bucks up a little, two fingers slide right into her.  
  
  
She's swearing in Russian again, but in a completely different way than before. At least till Leonard removes his fingers to remove her underwear. But once she realizes what he's doing, she lifts her hips, telling him to hurry. So he does—probably  _hurries_  a little harder than he should, this late in the pregnancy; but Lina's moaning again, her head thrown back, curls all over the pillow.  
  
  
Leonard's almost surprised to discover that he, himself, is hard, focused as he was on Lina. But now that he's remembered that yes, he has a cock—and it, too, is something Lina loves even more than his fingers—he wants to be inside her so badly, it's like acid in his veins.  
  
  
“Oh, Leonard . . . I wish you were inside me.”  
  
  
“If wishes were horses, baby.” Leonard sighs wistfully and adds a third finger. Mouths Lina's nipples through her uniform and thumbs her clit slow and hard till she comes with a breathless, high-pitched squeak.  
  
  
Afterwards, she lays there, breathing so deeply, face so peaceful, he thinks she's fallen asleep. She looks like an angel (an exhausted one), and Leonard leans down to kiss her tenderly. Gets the surprise of his life when she smiles on his lips and grabs his erection through his trousers.  
  
  
“God, yeah, baby,” Leonard groans, and shudders when she unzips him one-handed and navigates her way past his boxers. She strokes and squeezes and holds him just the way he likes, till he grunts and pushes in and out of her fist carefully.  
  
  
“Leonard,” she chides huskily. “I am not made of glass. Pretend you are fucking me, and  _fuck_ me.”  
  
  
“God, baby . . . you don't have to do this.” Leonard grunts when she swipes her thumb across the head of his cock. Her hand, though small, is strong, and she's got a grip like nobody's business but Leonard's.  
  
  
“I  _want_  to do this,” she murmurs, her blue, blue eyes direct and unabashedly open. There've never been any secrets in them, and there aren't now. If she has defenses and subterfuges, Leonard has yet to see sign of them. “If I could, I vould have you inside me. If you'd let me, I'd have you above me, while I suck your cock.”  
  
  
“Oh, fuck me,” Leonard groans. He likes dirty-talk, and though Lina's talk isn't especially dirty, it's always very candid, and that, it seems, is more than enough to turn his crank at warp-factor seven.  
  
  
“I would like to do that, too. I have toys—”  
  
  
“Lina!” he gasps, turned on, appalled, and amused all at once. She blinks at him innocently, and smiles that sly, cat-that-got-the-cream smile.  
  
  
“Would you like that?” she asks with an guilelessness that's so seamless, it  _has_  to be put on.  _Has_ to be. “There's one that is made of glass-alloy, with three subtle curves, like so—” she makes a squiggle in the air with her other hand. “I think, with proper preparation and lubrication, you would take it wery easily, in time—”  
  
  
“Lina—what're you  _sayin'_?”  
  
  
Lina's straight brows lift up, but that smile doesn't go anywhere. “But that would be in time. For now, I think a finger up your ass while I suck your cock is adventuresome enough, yes?”  
  
  
And even if Leonard  _had_  an answer to that, he'd have lost it to an orgasm as hard and merciless as any he's ever experienced. Would've lost it to Lina's mouth on his own, and her tongue darting into his mouth with calculated and meaningful force.  
  
  
As he rides out the last tremors, he has just enough presence of mind to collapse next to Lina, not on her. She immediately curls up on his chest, unmindful of his panting. He hugs her close and kisses the crown of her head, and they lay there in silence, listening to each other breathe for a little while.  
  
  
“Your daughter has finally stopped keeking me. I think she is asleep,” Lina murmurs, and Leonard snorts. Shivers as she marches her fingers up his chest. He catches them and kisses them, tasting himself on them.  
  
  
“Well, that's something.”  
  
  
“She's already like her father: orgasms put her to sleep straight away.”  
  
  
“Hey! Not always—and being a CMO is a stressful, taxin’ job!” Leonard sputters, only for Lina to giggle and trace his left nipple with her fingertip. “So's keeping up with a wife who's half my age. I'm an old man, Polina.”  
  
  
“You are  _my_  old man, and I am your old lady.”  
  
  
“You've been hanging around Jim too much.”  
  
  
“So  _is_  it normal, Leonard?” Lina asks, blinking big blue eyes up at him. Leonard brushes curls off her face and neck and looks into her eyes. Wonders if the baby will inherit that pale, fragile blue, or his own unremarkable brown. Or something in between. “I mean that I am so beeg so fast.”  
  
  
“Sweetheart, we've discussed this. Each pregnancy effects each woman differently, and—”  
  
  
“Ai! I am  _vhale_!” Lina groans, her eyes filling with tears again as she hides her face against Leonard's chest. He could kick  _himself_. When Jocelyn was pregnant, he'd somehow known all the right things to say, but now . . . now, everything is different. The same in a lot of ways, but so very different.  
  
  
“Sweetheart, you ain't a—a  _vhale_ , you're beautiful,” he says, cuddling her close and kissing her forehead. “You're lovely, and on top of havin' a very petite frame, you've got a  _McCoy_  growin' in you. We tend to make  _big_  babies. Damned big, actually. So add all that together and you're gonna seem larger than you really are.”  
  
  
Lina sniffles. “How beeg is  _beeg_?” she mumbles into his chest. Leonard lets out a breath. Disaster? Narrowly averted.   
  
  
“Well, now, let's see . . . Joanna was nine pounds six ounces when she was born. I was nine pounds two ounces, and my older sister was ten pounds even—hah! Dad and Aunt Linda were ten and a half pound twins—”  
  
  
Lina gapes up at him with round, almost terrified eyes (Leonard knows that if the baby  _does_  get her eyes, he'll be wrapped around her finger from day one). “So . . . is likely baby will be at least nine pounds? Possibly eleven?” When Leonard nods, pleased with himself at managing,  _finally_ , to do something right, Lina turns away from him, starting to weep in earnest, and nothing Leonard says makes her stop. Though he can just barely make out the words  _chronic lower back problems_  and  _broken wagina_.  
  
  
“Now, darlin’, there ain’t such a thing as a . . . broken wagina. . . .”  
  
  
“What would  _you_  know about it? Is it  _your_  wagina? No. Is mine.  _Baby_  will break  _my_  wagina and you do not ewen  _care_!” Lina’s sobbing and shaking, and Leonard’s really put his foot in it, this time.  
  
  
He tries to turn her toward him, kisses the back of her head and hugs her tight. “Ah, sugar-dumplin'—“  
  
  
“Do not call me that! This is  _all your fault_!” Lina shrugs him off and rolls awkwardly to her feet. She shoots him one resentful glance over her shoulder, calls him a very impolite name in Russian then stalks off to the bathroom. If it were possible for an automatic door to slam, this one would’ve been knocked off its hinges.  
  
  
In the sudden silence of their quarters, Leonard huffs, crosses his arms and lays there.  
  
  
“Goddamn women and their goddamn moods," he mutters, knowing that, sooner or later she'll come out, contrite and sweet, and  _his Lina_  once more. Then maybe they'll cuddle till she falls asleep, and  _then_  Leonard can get back to his work for a few hours. . . .  
  
  
Two hours later, the bathroom door still hasn't opened, Leonard's work and eight fingers of aged scotch are done. His bladder is full and he feels in dire need of a shower.  
  
  
Lina's never locked herself in the bathroom for quite  _this_  long.  
  
  
Starting to get worried, he’s on his feet and at the bathroom door, finger on the comm-pad, apologizing and pleading for her to come out.  
  
  
Nothing.  
  
  
After ten minutes of heartfelt, fumbling apologies, Leonard's about to use his security override, when the door whooshes open, letting out floral-scented steam and a smiling, bathrobed Lina.  
  
  
"Seelly, you act as if I have never taken a bath before," she tsks, bouncing up on her toes to kiss Leonard on the chin. "Did you miss me? I missed you."  
  
  
"You did?" Leonard asks, completely puzzled and very wary. Lina laughs her pretty, tinkly laugh, her eyes sparkling with happiness.  
  
  
"Of course I did! I always miss you when we're apart. So take your shower and hurry to bed." Another bouncy kiss and Lina's strolling off to bed, looking tiny and defenseless in Leonard's terrycloth robe.  
  
  
She makes herself comfortable and smiles over at Leonard like he hung the moon.  
  
  
Relieved, he shakes his head and leans against the lintel, unable to stop himself from returning that sweet, lovely smile.   
  
  
"Seelly," she says again, blowing him a kiss and curling onto her side. She yawns, and sleepily tells him she loves hims "wery, wery much." Then she closes her eyes and is, almost immediately, sound asleep, one hand under her head, the other on her stomach.  
  
  
Leonard watches her for awhile, letting his love for her fill him like air fills a sail. It's what's been carrying him through even his worst days, what buoys him against failure and magnifies his successes.  
  
  
Even at her most hormonal, he'd rather be here, now, with Lina, than be anywhere else in the whole wide universe. And soon, the baby will make three.  
  
  
His family, though small and new, is everything to him. Lina knows that, and knows that, no matter what, this will never change. That no matter how temperamental and difficult she can be—which is very, even before the pregnancy—he loves her in spite of it. Maybe even  _because_  of it. And just when he thinks he couldn't possibly love her more, he's proven wrong. . . .  
  
  
Leonard laughs quietly at himself and  _his own_  sappy, drunken hormones. "I love you, too, Lina McCoy. More and more, every day."  
  
  
Shaking his head again, he goes into the bathroom, still laughing.  
  



End file.
